


And It Is Mine

by AlastorGrim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Harry Potter, Dragons, Friends With Benefits, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Languages Translated Through Google, M/M, Master of Death Harry Potter, Newt Scamander Being Newt Scamander, No Bashing, Pirates, Politics, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sexual Tension, Slight Peggy Sue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2019-11-06 19:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlastorGrim/pseuds/AlastorGrim
Summary: Lord Voldemort has an obsessive personality. This is something that he has always known, and it has served him well in the past in his endeavors. But thatboy, and that place, and the mystery curdling behind hateful green eyes--well, in this instance, his obsessions may well be his downfall.





	1. Prologue

On the cusp of Harry Potter's tenth birthday, he vanished without a trace. The Dursleys themselves were befuddled by it, frightened that the wizard who had made them take the boy in so long ago would return and smite them for losing the child.

But nothing happened.

A tense year went by, and on what would have been Harry Potter's eleventh birthday, a letter arrived. Petunia Dursley, knowing what the letter contained and who it was from, burned it, so that it might not have been sent at all. But on the week following, a large man pounded on their front door. 

Rubeus Hagrid was informed rather rudely by a trembling muggle that looked rather like a walrus, that Harry Potter was nowhere on the premises and that Hagrid would be better served searching for the boy somewhere else, please and thank you.

The Wizarding World went into an uproar once they found out the boy hero had disappeared. Albus Dumbledore himself was brought into question, as he was Harry Potter's magical guardian, but the records were checked and revealed that Dumbledore hadn't had guardianship over Harry Potter for the entire year that he had been missing. It was unclear who held the accounts now—only that they were still active. Which meant that the Potter heir, while vanished, was still very much alive.

Once the hype over Harry Potter's disappearance had died down, another issue arose. Sirius Black had escaped from prison, and was also nowhere to be found. 

Albus Dumbledore had his hands full with his old friend's request to guard his property, and was unable to offer input on what might have happened with the Ministry and Black's escape. Unfortunately, a young muggleborn in Gryffindor got past the defenses for the stone, and ended up accidentally collecting the stone, which was then wrested from them by Voldemort himself. The issue was kept quiet, and life went on as normal for the rest of wizardkind, blissfully unaware of the impending danger growing in the shadows.

In what would have been Harry Potter's third year at Hogwarts, a man began to make himself known in the political world. Thomas Aenigma pushed and shoved and pummeled his way through throngs of bootlickers and slothish parts until he was one of the most influential men in Wizarding Britain, rivaling even Albus Dumbledore himself.

There were a few people in the crowds, unswayed by the man's charm, hat knew the truth. Those that tried to out it, however, were quickly and permanantly silenced. 

And so it was that by what would have been Harry Potter's fifth year, Thomas Aenigma was made Minister of Magic. The people were overjoyed, the disasters of before still fresh in their minds, glad to be rid of the bumbling fool that was Cornelius Fudge. Surely Minister Aenigma would bring about a new era. An era of hope, of peace, of safety.

Harry Potter was forgotten as Britain's saviour. In his place, stood Thomas Aenigma. Or, as Dumbledore knew him—Tom Riddle.

But one could only wonder...what was the Chosen One doing now?


	2. Chapter One

_**Cairo, Egypt, 1996** _

 

Lord Voldemort was, for lack of a better word, _done_ with the foreign dignitaries. He missed the days where he could throw out the Cruciatus whenever he wished and have no one think twice about it.

He apparated to the steps of the Inn he was staying in while being forced to make nice with Egyptians, his stride steady as he continued into the building and swept up the stairs to his room. It had been a long day, the sun setting in bloody reds and oranges over the pyramids in the distance, and away from professionalism, the Dark Lord in Minister’s skin admitted that a glass of wine would be wonderful just then. 

Pulling off his cloak, he fell gracefully in the armchair set beside the (much unneeded) fireplace. Lithe fingers drummed idly on the arm of the seat, and Voldemort wondered if there was anywhere in this godforsaken warzone called a country that he might find unsanctioned alcohol.

He supposed he could always tour the city, but he did not particularly feel like dragging his shoes through muck and filth. The capital was grand, yes, but poverty lurked everywhere the rich did not, which was essentially every other block. 

After this meeting was concluded, he was going to announce himself to be on vacation and disappear to his old sacred spots for a year or so. His reign was stable enough now that he could delegate some, and he felt a deep need to reconnect with the old magicks. 

But first…

Voldemort stood and went over to the window, the tip of his wand pressed to the glass. “ _Auras tabula_ ,” He murmured, pleased as he watched gray smoke emanate from his wand and zip off into the streets. A few moments later it came zipping back and launched back into his wand tip. He flicked it lazily towards the fireplace and watched curiously as a smokey rendition of the city built itself up before him. Most of the city was gray—boring, muggle strips of buildings—but here and there, especially near the capital, there were spots of vivid color.

Near the capital there were clusters of green and blues. He would stay away from those. But along the back streets were dots of reds and purples, indicating that beings of darker nature were welcomed. 

He hummed and flicked his wand again to zoom in on them, a few of them catching his eye. Being able to forgo his glamour would be refreshing; red eyes weren’t uncommon in darker circles, though the youth in his face might be a problem. Well, if it was, it would be simple to make a kill and establish dominance. He didn’t really want to do anything so rash though, it would be far too much effort when he was only remaining for another day and a half.

Voldemort caught sight of building far away from the capitals, on the river, and hummed in approval. He made note of its location and banished the map. His clothes would need to downgrade if he didn’t want to be recognized, but that was hardly a problem. He prefered slacks to robes anyhow.

By the time he had finished settling his appearance, the sky had bruised magenta and violet. Not wanting to attract the attention of the innkeeper, he briefly dismantled his apparition wards _crack_ ed into being on the other side of the city. He drew up the hood of his cloak, a sneer on his lips as he stepped over trash and refuse to reach the door of the building called ‘ _Alshams_ ’.

It was not the sort of club that boasted of finery, but still, somehow Voldemort had expected more. Instead, he stepped over the unconscious form of a werewolf two steps into the room, the air smoke and filled with raucous chatter. 

He grimaced. 

Twas the price of fame, he supposed.

A house elf was serving drinks at the bar, and a witch dressed in a skimpy rendition of a _bedlah_ sat atop the back of a centaur and sang in a language that was both not English and not Egyptian. His lip curled in disgust. The drink had better be worth the indignities he was being faced with.

Voldemort kept his hood up as he slid into the bar, a subtle cleaning charm flashing over the blood-stained leather before he sat. 

“What’ll it be?” The elf croaked, half-dead and blinded in one eye.

“Cognac.”

“I hope you can pay for that, pretty boy.” The elf squinted it’s baggy eyes at him, suspicious. 

“I would not have asked for it if I could not, _elf_ ,” He snarled back, pupils slitted.

The elf sniffed and bared its dirty teeth at him, then turned to grab the bottle from the top shelf. Appeased, Voldemort eased back into his seat and let out a heavy breath, shoulders slumped. A tumbler of maroon was placed in front of him, and he slid it back out of the elf’s reach and gave it a once over, in case the despicable cur poisoned it.

It came back clean, and he downed half of it in one go. He couldn’t get properly drunk, but enough of toxicity would force his muscles to relax and warm his blood. He polished off his glass and slid it back with a pointed grunt. 

His eyes roved over the rowdy room while the grumbling elf filled his tumbler again, and he reached for his glass just as he caught sight of a curtained doorway at the back. It seemed like a private room for more ‘elite’ members. Surely it was quieter in there. 

Tossing a handful of galleons onto the bar, the Dark Lord stood with his drink and began to weave his way across the room. There was someone standing guard at the entrance to the other room, but a quick glance told him that they could be easily confunded. A twist of his wand, then the guard was staggering to the side a bit and Voldemort was vanishing through the curtain to the other room. 

He had been wrong. It was just as loud in here as it was in the other room.

But that happened to be because of the crowd gathered around the low stage to the right, spotlights colored red, purple, white swirling and focusing on the figure dancing in the center of it. It wasn’t the crowd that caught Voldemort’s attention, however.

Music twisted smoothly through the thick air, the boy on stage matching the beat perfectly. Sun bronzed skin stretched taut over a lithe chest, tattoos that glinted gold tracing tribal patterns down both his arms and curling just beneath his shoulder blades. Wild black hair fell over mesmerizing green eyes, the emerald beads on the silk harem pants he wore unable to compare. He was barefoot, light on his feet.

But what made Voldemort stop and stare was the large, iridescent boa wound around his shoulders like a scarf. Black scales that shone in multicolor wrapped strongly around tattooed biceps, its tail curled down the boy’s left arm and flicking about his fingers. 

The boy was _speaking_ to it.

Not in English, or even Egyptian or Arabic. Even from here, Voldemort could recognize the sibilant hiss of parseltongue on another’s tongue.

“ _Isss the musssic too loud again?_ ”

“ _It alwaysss is. No, the air isss different. I sssense a presence. It isss...familiar._ ”

The boy curled his arms up above his head and threw his head back, a smirk barely visible on his lips. “ _In what way? I get lotsss of regularsss._ ”

The snake gave an annoyed hiss. “ _I’m well aware, hatchling._ ”

“ _Back to hatchling, Felis? Are you that petty?_ ”

“ _Yesss._ ”

The boy laughed and swirled once to the other side of the stage. He grazed his gaze over the crowd, half-lidded, and grinned. “ _Don’t worry. They know by now that have no chance. Half of them want you to voyeur, you know,_ ” At the disgusted spit the snake emitted, the boy smirked. “ _And I alwaysss tell them no, do I not._ ”

The song crested and the cheers ratched up into a roar of noise as he bent backwards and touched the dirty floor with the tips of his fingers. A loud crash of cymbals, and he snapped back up, crackles of lightning shooting from his fingers and bursting over the crowd’s heads with loud _pops_.

They howled their approval, a few of the werewolves in the back actually howling, like some sort of stereotypical beasts. Voldemort sneered at them, then locked his eyes back onto the boy. 

He wasn’t aware that there were other speakers in the wizarding world. There was Salazar Slytherin, the Gaunt family, and himself. There were no other records of any parselmouths anywhere else, certainly not a city as decrepit as this. A deep, burning curiosity scoured his insides, clawed and snarled and whined in his chest, until he knew that it would not disappear until he had gotten the answers he craved. A character flaw, perhaps.

Nevertheless, he _wanted_ to know, and so he _would_. It had been a very long time since anyone had been able to stop him from getting what he wanted.

The tumbler hung limp in his hand was brought to his lips, and he leaned back against the wall to wait. Wandless magic or not, the boy was still that—a boy. It should be relatively easy subdue him. Voldemort tilted his head, eyes turned even bloodier by the spotlights. Then again, he knew that looks could be deceiving; he had used his youth to its full advantage when he was still in Hogwarts, fostering trust and harvesting sympathy. It was amazing how stupid grown men and women could be when faced with a young, pretty face.

He pressed a smirk into the rim of his glass, eyes hooded. Well, they would see, wouldn’t they?

. 

•⚓️•

 

Three more songs, and then the boy vacated the stage much to the dismay of the crowd, and Voldemort traced the walls back to the door around the back of the building, and he pushed himself through it to wait in the alleyway.

Fifteen minutes later, the boy stumbled out of the building as well, dressed now in a dark gray cloak, a satchel of black leather slung across his body, and a pair of the most ridiculous coke bottle glasses Voldemort had ever seen. They magnified those lovely green eyes as the boy glanced around then began to walk briskly, still barefoot, towards the back of the alleyway. Once the boy’s attention was fully on the street, Voldemort swept out from the shadowy corner he’d been lurking in, and stalk after him. 

A black head peeked out from the flap of satchel. “ _Hatchling! The presssence!_ ”

But it was far too late for warnings, as Voldemort caught the boy by the wrist just as he went to whirl around. A snarl reverberated through the air, struck the Dark Lord in the chest, and green eyes sliced up into red. Then the boy faltered, his eyes widened. 

“Hello there,” Voldemort mused, charm dripping from his tongue. “Forgive me my bluntness, but you are _exquisite_. Though, I do have a few questions for you.” He leaned closer to the boy, a smirk on his lips. “ _We ssspeak the sssame language, an interesssting coincidence, yesss?_ ”

“You,” The boy breathed, shocked. Then his eyes narrowed, gaze turned acidic, and he hissed, “ _You_.” His wrist twisted in Voldemort’s grip, and to the Dark Lord’s surprise, the tattoos on the boy’s arms began to glow. Heat seared up into his fingers, blistering, and Voldemort’s eyes widened to see the beginnings of real lightning at the boy’s fingertips, nothing like the parlor trick of before.

“ _Cousa Salvaxe_ , not in public.” An amused voice floated from the shadows of the end of the alley. A figure in a silver cloak that covered their face stood leaned against the wall.

Voldemort was very sure that they had not been there a moment ago. 

The boy growled and wrenched his arm out of Voldemort’s grip with surprising force. He swept over to the figure to stand beaide them almost protectively. 

They chuckled. “No need for that, Harry. Why don’t you ask Tom if he would like to join us for tea?”

An involuntary snarl ripped itself out of his throat at the name, deep and gutteral. Oddly enough, this seemed to relax the boy—Harry—who had clearly been on the verge of refusing. He glanced back at Voldemort, amused. An eyebrow raised in silent challenge.

“I would be honored to accept your invitation,” Voldemort oozed from behind a clenched jaw and sparks of rage. He twisted his face up into a winning smile.

“No need to lie,” The boy drawled, an odd accent on his tongue. With that he stepped forward, hand extended in an offering. “There’s no point. I know who you are. _Minister_.”

The figure laughed and pushed themselves off the wall. “Let him alone, _Cousa Salvaxe_. He’s just curious. Not his greatest sin, I’m sure.” They mused as they began to stroll towards the street. 

“No,” The boy murmured with a scowl as Voldemort reached out an took his hand in a grip that was much too tight.

“It is not.”

This was bound to be interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as they apparated into a dim foyer, the boy released his hand and shook him off to follow after the person in the silver cloak. Voldemort tipped his head and ventured after him into a small sitting room. Lopsided velvet couches and lounge chairs, placed strategically around a squat fireplace that seem to spit out flames and inhale them back in.

The center of the room was empty of any table—not that it would’ve fit—and a menagerie of different rugs were strewn out between the chairs to cover the stained hardwood beneath. The walls were covered in some sort of faded wallpaper the same scarlet as the couches. One of the lounge chairs, the one farthest from the fireplace, was a deep black, the small inn table next to it covered in odd knickknacks. Some sort of blue and silver ornament with a valve sticking out of the top stood in the center of the table.

The boy tossed himself on the couch, his cloak still on but his hood down, and stretched his arms over his head. He lifted the satchel from his side and dipped his hand inside for the boa to curl up his arm. With a hum, he leaned forward and let the snake slip off his arm and onto the rug nearest to the fireplace. “Play nice, Felis.”

It wasn’t parseltongue, but snake gave an annoyed hiss like it understood anyway. 

Curious, Voldemort walk over to it, only to leap back when the fireplace suddenly gave a loud roar and began to shake threateningly, dust puffing out into the air as the bricks rattled in their place. It settled again as soon as he was an appropriate distance away from it, silent and still once more.

“Mind the fire sprites,” Harry drawled, an amused quirk to his lips. “The hearth is very protective of them.”

“Yes, it makes it very hard to clean it. You have to prop it open with the poker if you don’t want to have your fingers crushed.” A chuckle came from the corner of the room where the black chair lay, and Voldemort turned to see black gloved hands tossing the silver cloak onto the back of it.

They were short and lithe, dressed in black slacks with a white dress shirt tucked beneath a baby blue weskit. Hair the same shade of silver as the cloak was thrown up into a short, messy ponytail, a glimpse of bronze between it and the weskit. Eyes a lighter shade of green than Harry’s glanced back at him from over black rectangular glasses.

“Well, sit down,” Harry drawled with a lazy gesture towards one of the chairs. He raised a challenging eyebrow at Voldemort that had the man clenching his fists and biting down on a curse. He dipped his head and sat primly on the edge of a lounge chair. Harry cocked his head to the side, a dark look flashing through his eyes before he relaxed back into the couch cushions. “Faith, you said something about tea?”

“So I did,” The girl—Faith—mused. She sighed and tucked her gloved hands into her back pockets. “I’ll get on that. Make yourself at home, Tom.” She sent him a good-natured wink, then strode out of the room through a dark doorway cut into both sides of the corner.

“ _Tell me how you ssspeak my langauge,_ ” Voldemort demanded softly, eyes narrowed.

“ _Rude._ ” Came a sneering hiss from in front of the fireplace.

“ _Easssy, Felis,_ ” Harry soothed, then turned his gaze back to Voldemort, expression sharp. “It’s not just your language. You should probably go ahead and abolish that thought right now. While you’re at it, vanish that one that tells you that you can order me around however you like.” It was said flippantly, but the intent behind the words was barbed—irritated.

Voldemort growled, enraged at the blatant disrespect. He reached for his wand, a faint voice in the back of his urging him to _wait_ , because this level of emotional sensitivity was not normal, something was not _right_ —

And then his wand soared from his pocket and into the tan hand across from him.

Harry gave him an icy look, pale wand twisted in between his fingers. He swung his legs to the side of the couch and stood. At five foot six, he was at least a head and a half shorter than Voldemort, and yet he stood with confidence of a giant. “Let me make something perfectly clear, _Minister_ ,” He said quietly. “Nothing in this room is yours except the body you inhabit and the clothes on your back. You can’t claim rights to anything else. You are in _my_ home, and I’ll not have you disrespecting me in it.”

With that, Voldemort’s wand was tossed back to him, and Harry sat back down on the couch, eyes half-lidded and looking for all the world that he did not just threaten one of the most powerful wizards in the world with his own wand.

“As for your earlier question, I’ve always been able to speak it. Given all those rumors surrounding you and your Ministry, I figured it was best to keep it to myself and move on while I still could.”

“You’re native to Britain then?” Voldemort hedged, still a bit baffled by the sudden switch in demeanor.

“...I was.”

A dark eyebrow raised. “Why did you leave, then? Surely this,” He gave the homey hovel around them a disdainful glance. “Isn’t any better than what you could’ve had. You’re what, fourteen? Why miss out on the chance to go to a proper wizarding school?”

Harry gave him an unimpressed look. “I’m fifteen, thanks. And I learned everything I needed to know from Faith, maybe even more.”

At the name, Voldemort bristled. “How does she know who I am? How do _you_ know who I am? I have not released anything to the public, and any and all records of my past self have been destroyed.”

Shrugging, Harry turned his eyes to the fire. “I know because Faith knows. As for how Faith knows—I don’t know where she gets her information, but I’m fairly sure that she knows just about everything. Which is why you’re sitting here now, I reckon. She knew you wouldn’t attack us as long as you wanted answers.”

“Astute,” He replied through gritted teeth. The boy had already proven that attacking him was damn near useless. The knowledge chafed at the Dark Lord’s bones, unsettled. “I noticed you don’t carry a wand.”

“I do, actually,” Harry mused, but made no move to draw one. “I just don’t need it. But it comes in handy whenever we need to pass through more civil territory undetected. There’s a port in South Africa that can detect magical cores and if you’re not carrying a wand, they assume you’re a criminal on the run. I don’t particularly fancy getting arrested.”

“Oh please,” Came the good natured snort from the dark doorway in the corner. Faith emerged with several glasses floating behind her. She tossed herself onto the black lounge chair and flicked her hand at the glasses. “We both know that nothing can hold you.” She cradled her own glass in her hands, a mischievous grin peeked over the lip of her cup.

A glass zoomed over to Voldemort and jammed itself into his hands. It was cold, a strange smell rising from it. He frowned.

Harry caught his own glass deftly with one hand and brought it to his lips. He huffed. “I told you I like ice in mine.”

Faith sniffed and set her glass down beside the strange ornament on the table next to her. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you crunch on it during civilized conversation, you fucking heathen.”

A grin curled Harry’s lips, eyes glittery. A roar shook the room then, emanating from somewhere further within the house. Neither of them flinched, but Voldemort jolted violently in surprise. He whipped his head around, mouth open to demand—

“Ignore that.” Faith waved a flippant hand. “He’s just upset that he’s not the center of attention tonight.”

“That honor belongs to me, I suppose?” Voldemort replied dryly.

“Arrogant little thing, aren’t you?” She drawled. The smirk she sent his way grated against his already frayed nerves. 

“That was a given,” Harry muttered from the rim of his glass. At Voldemort’s glare, he merely tipped his head, gaze gone half-lidded. “Any other questions, Tom?”

Clenching his jaw and summoning the inner depths of his patience, Voldemort smothered his anger and calmly asked, “Are you a threat to me?”

It stung his pride to ask such a question, but with how delicate his hold on the Ministry currently was and the amount of information these two infuriating children had on him, it was needed. He needed to know if he had to deal with them sooner rather than later. 

Harry raised an eyebrow and lifted his chin. “About as much as you are to us.”

“Basically, as long as you don’t fuck with us, we don’t fuck with you,” Faith interjected helpfully, having seen his hands twitch towards his wand again at the vague answer.

“You won’t interfere with my plans?” He reaffirmed.

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about what goes on in Britain. Harry here can make his own decisions, of course, but I doubt he cares either. As long as you don’t gun for us and leave the more obscure magical communities alone, you can do whatever you want.”

“I left Britain for dead long ago.” Harry stared into the fire with a scowl. “I don’t regret it.”

“There you go,” Faith murmured as she took another sip of her drink.

Voldemort looked back and forth between them, eyes narrowed. He smoothed over his expression and leaned back against the chair. He brought his own glass to his lips and sipped, refraining from choking at the startling taste roses and snow. This was _tea_? He cleared his throat and set the glass aside. “I would like to propose a proposition.”

Harry’s relaxed disposition became tense once more, but Faith seemed intrigued. She tilted her head curiously. “I’m listening.”

“You allow me to observe your little operation for a time, just to insure that you are of no consequence, and should I deem you safe after the allotted time, I will leave you with an oath to leave you be.”

“Don’t trust us at our word, Tom?” Faith mused even as Harry shot to his feet.

“No,” Harry snarled, incensed.

Voldemort ignored him. He raised an eyebrow. “Should I trust you?”

“God no, never trust anyone,” Faith laughed. Her eyes flashed and her smile turned sharp. “I have terms.”

“ _No_!” Harry roared, fists clenched and sparking erratically with his rage. “Fae, you can’t possibly—”

“ _Is é seo mo damanta theach. Tá fáilte romhat dul ar ais chuig do chófra mura dtaitníonn an chuideachta leat._ ” Faith snapped. She tipped her glass at Harry and glared. “ _Ná smaoinigh fuíoll feisithe a dhéanamh díomsa._ ”

With a growl, Harry backed down from their glaring contest and stormed out of the room in a huff.

Faith gave Voldemort a lazy smirk. “He’ll pout for a while. But say I let you tag along with us. I have room for you here, but while under my roof, it’s my rules, Tom. I can kick you out anytime I please, and you can follow on behind the carriage, as they say. And you’d have to play nice with the others. I can’t have a bunch of tantrums being thrown and all of you breaking my shit just because you’re pissed.”

Crimson eyes slitted. “I am not a child.”

“Mmhm,” Faith hummed indulgently. “Do we have a deal, Mister Minister?” She extended a black gloved hand.

“...You’re awfully relaxed about this, considering your ward seems to hate me.” He hedged with suspicion.

“Oh, the other two won’t be thrilled either, I’m sure. They’ll get over it. I’ve got a feeling about this little endeavor of yours, Tom,” She grinned, and he could’ve sworn he saw a flash of fang. “I think we’re going to get along _great_.”

Somehow, Voldemort doubted that. He took her hand anyway, not about to back down. “Then we have a deal.”

“Splendid! I’ll show you to your room.”


	4. Chapter 4

The room Faith showed him to was near the end of the dim hall, next to a door that rattled occasionally with growls and huffs, like some sort of large animal snoring. She pressed a hand to the door and it clicked open.

“There. This room is yours now.”

Then she’d left him to his own devices. The room was fairly small, lit only by sconces on the wall, but there was a large bed pushed into the corner, and a desk directly to his left. It was clean, but homely.

He hated it.

But he had much to think over and much to do, so he sat himself at the desk and resolved himself to a long night of letter writing. The first to Barty, the second to Rockwood, and the third to Dolohov. Mayhaps even one to Lucius.

Voldemort transformed one of the pens he found into a quill with a sneer and rummaged around for some parchment.

It seemed the Minister was taking a vacation.

 

•⚓•

 

Morning dawned with little fuss, save for three soft, rapid knocks against his door. Voldemort looked up from the letter he'd been recomposing and raised an eyebrow. He blinked when Faith poked her head in with a lazy grin.

"Breakfast in five. Gird your loins."

With that odd statement, she wiggled her fingers at him and shut the door behind her. She didn't seem surprised to find him up and about already, but then again, she seemed the type to rarely be surprised by anything.

It was irksome.

Pursing his lips, he folded the letter and tucked it into its envelope. He slipped it into his robes, pristine, then stood to make his way out of the room. He shut his door with a wordless flick of his wand, nose wrinkled at the scent of something sticky sweet that permeated the air. 

A soft click sounded from the end of the hallway, and Voldemort's head whipped up in time to see the boy Harry stumbled out of the room next to his own with a yawn. His jet black hair was stuck up in all directions in disarray, those awful coke bottle glasses askance on his nose, and a large maroon sweater that hung down to his knees draped over him. 

The snake, Felis, was curled around his shoulders like a shawl, the barest hint of gold and tan peeking out from between crimson wool and dark iridescent scales. A hand half covered in the sleeve of the sweater reached up to rub at Harry's eye. 

He turned, then froze at the sight of Voldemort, eyes wide. Then his eyes drooped, mouth twisted in a tired sneer as he scoffed. He stalked past Voldemort with a muttered, "Of fucking course." before disappearing around the corner, where the smell was originating from.

More annoyed than offended, Voldemort held his head high and stalked after him. He swept around the corner into a room he hadn't seen the night before, immediately picking out the odd black and white wallpaper patterned in floral skulls, and the paint stained circular table set in the middle of the room. Voldemort paused in the doorway, head tipped in incredulity.

"Hey stud, you gonna scoot or what?" A high voice chirped beside his ear. 

Voldemort startled, whirling to glimpse one of the skulls leering at him with its flat, curly teeth. He stared, bewildered. The wallpaper was _alive_? He'd known that magical houses tended to be more sentient than most, but this was getting ridiculous.

The skull raised a brow at him, grinning. "Well? You're blocking my view, sweets."

Brow furrowed in irritation, Voldemort snarled in the wallpaper's direction as he ventured further into the dining room and turned back to face the room as the rest of the skulls tittered at him. There was movement in the dark doorway just to the right of the one he had come through, and then one black clad leg struck out from the dimness, backward, followed by the sway of Wisher's waist as she swung around into the dining room as well with a plate piled high with waffles in her hands, two oil dispensers filled with amber hooked over her forearm.

"Stop staring at my ass, Sara," Faith sang as she waltzed over to the table and set the plate and glasses down in the center.

Behind him, he heard the skull groan, "No fun."

Shaking off his increasing confusion, Voldemort strode forward and pulled out a chair two down from where Harry had seated himself, slumped over onto his arms on the table. A single, dull green eye peeked over the rim of his glasses when Wisher snapped her fingers and a well worn mug came zooming out of the dark doorway and set itself before his folded arms. Harry immediately perked up, the scent of coffee luring him out of his want for sleep.

"Good morning, Tom," Faith greeted mildly. "Did you sleep okay?"

"I don't sleep," Voldemort replied bluntly.

"Mm, probably for the best. Not sure I'd want whatever you consider dreams cluttering up my house. Coffee?" She walked back into the black room before he could respond.

"Is she always this cryptic?" Voldemort hissed, vexed.

"Yeah." Came the unenthused grunt from the other end of the table.

"Ah, you get used to it after a while! She likes to speak in puzzle pieces; it's your job to put them together," A new voice chimed cheerfully from the doorway. 

A stocky, brawny man with tied up ginger hair and tattoos on his wrists strolled into the dining room, smiling. He glanced at Voldemort, but didn't seem concerned, as if strangers appearing at the breakfast table was a regular occurrence. Rounding the table, he brushed his fingers across the back of Harry's neck as he passed by, smile curving mischeviously.

"Nice sweater."

"Ugh. It should be illegal to be that cheerful in the morning," Harry griped as he nursed his mug near religiously.

"They can't catch me. I've rode dragons." He winked.

"Off your fuckin' high lizard, Charles!" Another voice barked as yet another man rounded the corner. 

This one, however, Voldemort recognized.

A mane of long black curls tied at the nape of a long neck, hooded eyes glimmering with mischief, and dressed like a muggle in jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket. Sirius Black. 

Gunpowder met black and widened, the strange object in his hands clattering to the floor.

Faith wandered back into the room, and Voldemort turned to face her slowly, pupils slitted.

"You've been harbouring a convicted criminal that is wanted by the Ministry of Magic?" He asked, voice soft and dead with implied threat.

The tension that had erupted into the room could've been cut with a knife. Harry's head had shot up, eyes blazing, and the ginger started looking frantically between all of them, bemused. Black had yet to take his eyes off of Voldemort, caught like a deer in the headlights. 

Only Faith seemed unphased. She hummed erratically as she placed a pan of buttery muffins down next to the waffles. "Yep! I'm not good with kids."

And that was all the explanation she gave.

Taking the distraction like a drowning man with a life jacket, Black scrambled around the table. "HEY are those muffins, I love muffins!" Then he proceeded to stuff two of them in his mouth like an animal.

Voldemort's lip curled up in disgust. He decided to stay his hand for now. A little blackmail material could go a long way, after all. Better to keep people on their toes. 

Instead, he reached for a muffin as well, stifling a purr of satisfaction when Black eased backwards, wary. He smiled and took a slow, deliberate bite out of the muffin. Black flinched.

"Okay," The ginger began slowly. "Anybody wanna tell me what the hell is going on here?"

"Harry would love to," Faith said as she said down and forked a few waffles onto her plate. She glanced up, lips curled, and tipped her head. "Wouldn't you, _Cousa Salvaxe_?"

"But you were the one who--!" Harry cut himself off, frustrated, and snatched the syrup container with a growl. "Fine. This is Tom Riddle, otherwise known as--"

"Voldemort," Black blurted out.

Harry paused in dumping an absurd amount of syrup on his waffles and shrugged. "I was gonna say the Minister of Magic, but yeah, that too."

The redhead jolted, his previous lighthearted demeanor flipping instantly into something hard, hazel eyes going sharp and shrewd. " _The_ Lord Voldemort?"

"Is there another one that I should be worried about?" Voldemort drawled, a brow cocked in question.

"Right." He drew a long, unkempt wand from his back pocket. "So I can just kill you now."

Before Voldemort could find out just how amusing of an ordeal that would've turned out to be, Harry reached up and placed a hand on the man's wrist. "Put it away, Charlie. House rules."

Charlie whipped his head to look at Faith, who hummed in acknowledgement. He turned back to Harry, who gave him a half-lidded look that spelled ' _Yeah, I already tried_ '. Jaw clenched, Charlie stiffly put his wand away and sat at the seat to Harry's left, just beside Faith. She handed him a muffin.

There were a few minutes of silence where they all focused on trying to eat, but it was ride with tension, the only two unbothered by it being their host and Harry.

Faith was the first to finish. She set her plate in the center of the table and it vanished. Her chair scraped loudly across the floor as she pushed back, a mug in her hand, and left the room. "Don't blow my shit up!" She barked over her shoulder as she disappeared down the hallway. And that was that.

Voldemort turned back to the rest of the table, who had gone rigid. He grinned, sharp and menacing. "So," He mused, steepling his fingers in front of his chest. "Who wants to explain _first_?"


End file.
